


Tipsy

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alcohol, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Living Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5389388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'You are absolutely done,' Gokudera tells him. 'You’ve made it to sentimentality, if I don’t cut you off now you’re going to pass out on the floor like you did last time.'" Yamamoto gets sentimental when he's tipsy and Gokudera remains entirely sober.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sentimental

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scaluwag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaluwag/gifts).



“You know,” Yamamoto says, slow and thoughtful, like he’s processing every word before he says it. “I think. I really love you.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes, a maneuver that goes tragically unseen since Yamamoto is currently gazing up at the ceiling like there’s anything there at all other than the texture of plain white plaster. “Right,” he says, and reaches across the table for Yamamoto’s sake cup. “That’s it for you then.”

“What?” Yamamoto looks back down, reaches up to close his fingers on the bottom of the cup as Gokudera starts to pull it away. “Wait, no, I’m not done.”

“You are absolutely done,” Gokudera tells him. “You’ve made it to sentimentality, if I don’t cut you off now you’re going to pass out on the floor like you did last time.”

“I’m not being sentimental,” Yamamoto says in clear rejection of the obvious truth. His hold on the cup is a lot stronger than it has any right to be; Gokudera can’t drag it free, even when he twists in an attempt to break Yamamoto’s hold. “I’m just thinking.”

“Out loud,” Gokudera tells him. He frowns at Yamamoto, drags his eyebrows into a scowl; Yamamoto blinks at him, the hazy gold of his eyes sliding out-of-focus on Gokudera’s face, and his fingers ease their hold so Gokudera can pull the cup free and to his side of the table. “At least when you’re sober I don’t have to listen to every idiotic thought that enters your head.”

“It’s not idiotic,” Yamamoto informs Gokudera with a steady certainty that promises absolutely no give even if Gokudera should decide to push back at this. “I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

“I  _know_.” Gokudera sets Yamamoto’s cup down safely to the side, reaches for his own instead to swallow a mouthful of sweet that burns going down. “We’re  _dating_ , you moron, generally that implies some minimal level of affection.”

“I don’t want to just imply,” Yamamoto says. He’s smiling, his mouth curving soft at the corner like he’s losing track of what he’s doing with it; his attention has completely abandoned the sake cup at the edge of the table. Now he’s leaning in against the edge of the surface, his elbow braced on it so he can rest his chin in his hand and blink dreamy-eyed focus at Gokudera. “I want to tell you all the time. So you know.”

“You do.” Gokudera kicks his leg out under the table, rocks his foot in hard against Yamamoto’s hip. The movement presses his calf against the angle of Yamamoto’s thigh, leaves the contact warm between them even after his sketched-out imitation of a kick has fallen flat. “All the time. Literally every hour, you never  _stop_  telling me.”

“It’s not every hour,” Yamamoto smiles. He reaches out over the table, his fingertips catching against Gokudera’s hair; Gokudera grumbles incoherent protest but doesn’t pull away as Yamamoto’s fingers slide higher into the strands to tug them smooth and fit them behind his ear. “Just whenever I think of it.”

“Sentimental,” Gokudera accuses. Yamamoto’s hand is trailing against the back of his neck, now, the other leaning in farther over the table so he can reach over the distance between them and fit his fingers against Gokudera’s collar. His smile is going wider, a little lopsided on intoxication and a lot warm on affection, and Gokudera is huffing meaningless protest as he leans in to the tug of Yamamoto’s hold at his neck. “I’m never letting you drink again, you become even more hopeless than you usually are.”

“Aww,” Yamamoto laughs, and he’s tipping in closer and angling his head in expectation and Gokudera can’t do anything else but duck in to fit his lips against Yamamoto’s. Yamamoto tastes sweet, his lips hot with the evaporating burn of the alcohol in their half-empty glasses and his tongue laced with the flavor of it, and Gokudera lingers longer than he should, lets Yamamoto breathe warm against his skin while he catches the other’s lip between his teeth, bites gentle friction against the soft of it until Yamamoto huffs a whimper of response to the drag of Gokudera’s mouth on his.

“Hopeless,” Gokudera tells him when he’s let Yamamoto’s lip go, when they’re both breathing harder against the other’s skin and leaning so far over the table Gokudera’s cup of sake is in some danger of being forgotten and dropped. “I can’t handle you when you’re drunk.”

“I like you even more when you’re tipsy,” Yamamoto volunteers, as if that has anything at all to do with the conversation, as if Gokudera isn’t completely sober in contrast to Yamamoto’s own flushed intoxication. “It’s nice.”

“I’m not tipsy,” Gokudera informs Yamamoto, reaching out to set his cup aside with more force than is necessary so it wobbles and nearly falls over. “I’m perfectly fine. What’s nice?”

“Mm.” Yamamoto reaches out with his other hand, gets his fingers up into Gokudera’s hair and sliding against the heat of his skin. When he leans in again it’s to raise his chin, to press his nose against Gokudera’s cheek in a clear plea for another kiss. “You forget.”

“I don’t,” Gokudera tells him. He ruffles his hand up into the short-soft dark of Yamamoto’s hair, presses friction against the back of the other’s neck so he can watch Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter with the contact, can hear the little whine of pleasure he makes as he leans in close to bump his mouth to the corner of Gokudera’s. “Forget  _what_?”

Yamamoto’s smile is so close Gokudera can feel it better than he can see it. “You forget to be grumpy.”

It takes Gokudera a moment to process this. By the time he does Yamamoto is kissing against his lower lip again, short-circuiting the threads of his thought into a shudder of heat until it’s hard to pull back and reach for the words to frame protest.

“I am  _not_  grumpy,” he tells Yamamoto with as much heat as he can muster, which is a lot but not of the right kind, it’s all soft and heavy instead of rough with irritation. “Anyone would be grumpy if they had to deal with you all the time.”

“Right,” Yamamoto says, and Gokudera has the very strong impression he’s not listening. He’s starting to kiss down Gokudera’s jaw instead in the denial of his lips. “I know.”

“You’re a pain,” Gokudera informs him as Yamamoto’s mouth finds out his pulse point and sucks brief pressure there. “You’re…you’re very distracting.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto purrs into his shoulder.

“You’re so--” and there’s friction, the scrape of teeth across skin, and Gokudera groans, startled into sound by the press of Yamamoto nipping against his collarbone. “ _Fuck_.”

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto says against his shoulder, slurring the syllables long and drawling on his tongue like he’s getting drunk off the consonants more than on the sake he’s had. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

“I’m not done,” Gokudera protests, but his hand is dragging through Yamamoto’s hair to pull him in closer and he’s not sure where his cup ended up. “I want to finish my sake first.”

“Hayato,” Yamamoto whines, pleading the sound past his throat.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says again, and he’s reaching out, fumbling over the table until he finds a cup at his fingertips. He pushes Yamamoto off with sheer force of will, breaking free of the other’s hold for a moment so he can bring the cup to his lips and swallow the mouthful of liquid that remains.

“I think that was mine,” Yamamoto observes as Gokudera sets the cup down on the table with more force than care.

“Whatever,” Gokudera tells him, rocking up onto his knees so he can come around the edge of the table and get his hand in against Yamamoto’s waist, against the soft fall of his t-shirt. “You’ve had too much already anyway.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto says, tipping backwards and over the floor. His eyes catch the light, go gold in the illumination; he’s smiling again, his mouth shining with damp and his cheeks flushed dark with heat. “Do you want to go to the bedroom?”

“No,” Gokudera says, and braces a hand over Yamamoto’s shoulder so he can lean in and press a kiss against his breathless-soft mouth. “Let’s just stay here.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto smiles, and when Gokudera kisses him again neither of them pull away.


	2. Pensive

“I think,” Gokudera says, slow and careful like he’s thinking about every syllable. “I think. We should thank the Tenth.”

“Sure,” Yamamoto agrees without hesitation. “What are we thanking Tsuna for?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gokudera tells him, though the words are somewhat lost to the way he has his head tucked in against Yamamoto’s waist. It would be much easier to hear him if he had his head up, or if he were sitting at all upright instead of draped into a boneless weight across Yamamoto’s leg and spilling over his lap. Yamamoto doesn’t ask him to move. “For each other, obviously.”

Yamamoto considers this for a minute. In the interim he fits his fingers into the fall of Gokudera’s hair to stroke gentle weight across the other’s scalp, to outline idle patterns guided by the warm purr of alcohol hazing over the clarity of his thoughts. “What are you talking about?”

Gokudera heaves a sigh and shoves against Yamamoto’s hip to twist so his head is propped on the other’s thigh instead of fitting close against his waist. “Us,” he says, lifting his arm from where it’s been curled around Yamamoto for the last half hour so he can gesture vaguely from Yamamoto’s chest to his own and back again. “Being together. It’s all thanks to him.”

“Really,” Yamamoto smiles. Gokudera blinks up at him, the edge of his stare blunted by the dizzy influence of alcohol; when he drops his hand it returns to Yamamoto’s hip, his fingers curling reflexively against the edge of the other’s shirt. “Because we’re both Guardians?”

Gokudera gives the best frown he can manage -- it’s more of a pout than a scowl -- and shakes his head decisively. “No,” he insists. “I was in _Italy_. You were. Here.”

“In Japan,” Yamamoto provides.

“Right,” Gokudera agrees. “I would never have even met you without the Tenth. I would have just...just stayed in Italy, working for someone else.”

“Hmm,” Yamamoto considers. “Maybe I would have become a pro baseball player and travelled to Europe for a game.”

Gokudera’s mouth twitches. “We don’t play baseball in Italy,” he informs Yamamoto. “Idiot.”

“For publicity, then,” Yamamoto shifts smoothly. He leans in closer, curving himself over the gap between them; Gokudera’s eyelashes flutter as he tips down, the other’s gaze catching to linger against Yamamoto’s mouth with all the dreamy inattention of inebriation. “Or maybe I would have been Tsuna’s Rain Guardian anyway, and we would have gone to Italy and I would have met you then.”

“Really,” Gokudera says. His fingers are working over the edge of Yamamoto’s shirt; Yamamoto can feel the warm edge of the other’s rings catching against bare skin. “Just, randomly, on the street?”

“Nah,” Yamamoto smiles. “You would have taken over a different family, obviously. We would meet during negotiations for an alliance.”

“Uh huh.” Gokudera sounds skeptical, but his smile is as warm and easy as the drape of his limbs as he sprawls across Yamamoto. “Why on earth would the Tenth have _you_ with him in negotiations?”

“I can be persuasive,” Yamamoto purrs, and presses his mouth to Gokudera’s while the other is still huffing through a laugh of skepticism. Gokudera’s amusement is warm on his tongue, as soft as the give of his lips; Yamamoto keeps his eyes open so he can see the way Gokudera’s gaze drifts out-of-focus and his eyelashes flutter heavy as his attention wanders. By the time he pulls back Gokudera is breathing harder, his hold on Yamamoto’s shirt dragging an unstated demand against the fabric; Yamamoto can taste the burn of alcohol on his tongue, can pick out the suggestion of the sour lemon Gokudera prefers with his drinks laid over Yamamoto’s own preference for sake.

“Anyway,” Gokudera says without opening his eyes, without easing his hold on Yamamoto’s shirt. “We should. Do that.”

“Thank Tsuna?” Yamamoto reminds him.

“Yes.” Gokudera opens his eyes, blinks a few times in quick succession. His hold on Yamamoto’s shirt eases, his arm slides back around Yamamoto’s waist; when he turns it’s to tuck himself closer again, to dig his shoulder against Yamamoto’s leg as he nuzzles close against the other’s stomach. “First thing tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto says. Gokudera sighs at his shirt, pushes in harder; the hem of Yamamoto’s shirt catches against his nose, riding up by a half-inch to bare a stripe of skin just in front of Gokudera’s lips. The other’s exhale tickles against Yamamoto’s stomach; Yamamoto shivers, laughs breathlessly, and Gokudera hums and tips his chin up until his mouth catches against Yamamoto’s skin in the easy slide of a kiss.

“I’m glad,” he mumbles, the words stretching out of coherency as they catch on the yawn he sighs into Yamamoto’s shirt. “That I met you.”

Yamamoto smiles at the tangle of Gokudera’s hair under his fingers, at the soft dark of his lashes lying heavy against his cheekbones; he can feel the way Gokudera’s breathing is deepening, going slow and heavy as it gives way to the threat of oncoming unconsciousness.

“I’m glad I met you too,” he says, but it’s very soft, and Gokudera doesn’t stir; even when Yamamoto reaches out to run his fingers through Gokudera’s hair it only gets him a sigh of contentment and a shift as some near-permanent tension slides free of Gokudera’s shoulders. Gokudera is heavy across Yamamoto’s lap, his whole body slumped in to press hard against the other’s, and he’s very warm, right down to the flush of alcohol coloring his cheeks to faint pink if Yamamoto looks for it. Yamamoto eases his fingers through Gokudera’s hair and down against the pale slope of his neck, and Gokudera doesn’t stir, lost completely to the peaceful sleep that is so rare for him to find.

Yamamoto doesn’t move them. There’s not much in reach, except for the low table holding their long-since emptied glasses, but if he stretches he can just touch his fingers to the blanket folded underneath it for safekeeping until the winter, can shake the weight of the cover out of its creases one-handed so as not to disturb Gokudera. He keeps one hand against Gokudera’s back, pressed flush against his shoulders to steady him as Yamamoto shifts to pull the blanket up over the curl of the other’s legs, carefully enough that Gokudera doesn’t even shift in his sleep. If Yamamoto leans back he can rest his shoulders against the wall, can tilt his head back and let the support take his weight; with Gokudera’s breathing gusting warm against his skin it’s easy to smile, easy to shut his eyes and let his attention wander into the dizzy haze of imminent unconsciousness.

Yamamoto’s dreams are as sweet as Gokudera’s.


End file.
